hallelujah
by velociraptorVENOM
Summary: It's not always about love. 6959. In-progress.


Slender fingers more accustomed to gripping dynamite, a bow, guns, explosive weapons meant for pain and suffering, rested uneasily on the keys of a piano, their old home. Too old, what should have been familiar territory felt foreign and too slick, too clean. The soft white and black, the dark wood of the piano's body, contrasted too heavily with the blood and dirt of mafia life.

For him, the apparel, too, was all wrong. He wasn't even wearing the suit for the sake of piano-playing, it was coincidence that he was here at all, his formal attire was for the upcoming meeting with an allied Family – hopefully allied, sudden meetings like this had a way of fucking over the people who hadn't planned it.

Even as Hayato's fingers lightly traced the keys of songs that felt ancient, he was all too aware of the dynamite strapped across his chest, around his legs and arms, wherever he could hide them; he wasn't known as Smoking Bomb Hayato for nothing. More comfortable weapons graced his hands, rings that had real meaning to them, as well as being useful in battle. His Storm ring he was always particularly aware of, the ring given to him by the Vongola, a symbol of his loyalty to the Tenth. Not that he needed a symbol to affirm his loyalty, if he had ever allowed the Tenth to doubt him he would have deserved to have his still-largely-assumed title of Right Hand stripped, would have given it up himself even.

There was at least two hours yet to wait for the ally Family's arrival, and though he had wanted to stay by the Tenth's side the entire time, Tsuna had sent him away, told him to relax like everyone else was. They were on Vongola territory. Even if a threat did show itself in the two hours before the Family's planned arrival, they weren't on the front lines here. Security was tight, the Ninth's Guardians were still in charge. After all, the Decimo Family was still full of children. Their oldest Guardian, Hibari, had only just turned eighteen, and he was hardly ever considered a part of the Family in non-formal matters anyway, elusive bastard that he was.

So the children had more or less been told to go play until they were needed. Tsuna had wanted Hayato to be somewhere else – 'Anywhere but here,' to be specific – and of course that had been his way of telling his loyal Right Hand to keep an eye on things in another part of the mansion.

That had led him to this room, nearly empty except for the piano.

The light that streamed through the large windows was pale from the cloudy weather, and in this largely unused portion of the mansion there was a certain chill to the air. Still, it wasn't unpleasant. Just more unfamiliar than he wanted to admit.

His fingers trailed across the keys again, he wanted to sit at the bench, play a tune that made him feel at home—but there was no such tune to play, they all brought back old memories, old notes in old songs in old memories of old families.

He was only sixteen. Too young to have this many old feelings.

He paused at a random note and depressed the key, the dusty piano letting out a clear, deep note that resounded around the room, comfortably filling it. Old memories or not, it felt good. It was an all-encompassing sound. Easy to get lost in.

With no one nearby, and after being told to make themselves at home, Hayato felt no guilt as he slid the bench out and sat at the piano properly. It obviously hadn't been touched except to be kept marginally clean in ages, no one would care if he played just one song.

He spent a few minutes getting accustomed to the feel, to the way the sound felt in the air, until one of the many old songs he knew barely touched his mind and went straight to his fingers.

He quickly lost himself, as so many musicians do, in the very music he was creating. It was intoxicating, being back at the piano after so long, so long, and in spite of his perceived duties, he couldn't help it.

He didn't even notice when a shadow of a person slipped into the room, silently watching and listening for several minutes before startling him out of his reverie with a deceptively quiet, "I didn't know you could play."

Gokudera would recognize that sly voice anywhere.

"When the hell did you show up?" he snapped, irritated as much with the surprise intrusion as the fact that Mukuro was so late to begin with.

"Recently," god the smirk was audible, "I was told it might get interesting."

Gokudera scoffed, but wasn't surprised. Mukuro only showed up when it worked into his plans, and even then he was more likely to just let Chrome do all the work. He was even more unreliable than Hibari, and shit was that ever saying something. As little as Gokudera saw him, it was easy to notice the changes in the young man leaning easily against the wall next to the doorway, the simple signs of aging, the low ponytail that reached his shoulder blade, the different twist to his cruel smile, the deeper, still-malicious understanding in his heterochromatic eyes. The older he got, the more damnable he became. "Don't fuck this up for us."

The words came with a warning tone that wouldn't have been possible in years past, an implied threat. The Vongola had information on Mukuro that could get him locked up in Vendice all over again, even after they had released him themselves. And while Tsuna, merciful as he was, didn't require Mukuro's cooperation to keep the information unknown, he did require that Mukuro not go directly against them or their goals. And of course, that he stop trying to possess Tsuna himself, even if the efforts were futile at this point.

Mukuro took the words with nothing but a twitch of his lips to indicate his irritation at the advantage Gokudera was waving around, and changed the subject again.

"How long have you played?"

"None of your business."

"An Italian composer? It sounded vaguely familiar, excusing a few off notes."

"Fuck if I know. Probably."

"It's been a while since you've played, then."

"What do you want?"

Gokudera hated talking to Mukuro, even seemingly innocent conversations probably had some deeper intentions, things he'd only reveal weeks later when he was using them against his chosen victim.

Mukuro answered with only a soft smile and closed eyes, not an answer at all, but by the time Gokudera opened his mouth to ask again, he knew he'd been tricked again, no fucking surprise there. Even as the illusionist he had been speaking to faded, Gokudera felt a hand on his shoulder and the close proximity of the breath that answered, "To hear you play more, of course."

He instinctively swung a fist for the gut of the Mukuro beside him, but by the time it reached its target, the Mist had once again disappeared, leaving only a faint sound of his mocking laughter.

Gokudera growled and said loudly to the presumably-empty room, "Well there's no way I'm playing for you, asshole."

* * *

><p>The incident in the piano room was quickly forgotten when the meeting started, and as predicted, completely went to shit. They were powerful, for a small family, but even without Hibari there – who they <em>didn't<em> need, Gokudera was convinced – they were able to come out with only some injuries, no fatalities.

Well. No fatalities on the Vongola side.

Two years of intense mafia life had hardened the Vongola Tenth's Guardians, just a little. Enough that killing a man was something they could fathom. Something they could do, if it meant each other's safety. They all dealt with it differently when it was necessary, Gokudera wasn't sure what everyone else did but he knew most of them needed something, anything to get them through the horrible realization that they had taken a life. Another life. Five lives. However many they had to.

Hayato had been a part of the mafia life for most of his own. He lived and breathed the mafia, the Vongola, and he had always known what would be necessary, and had always been prepared for it.

So of course he didn't need anything after killing. Of course not. A proper Right Hand couldn't. And the three men he'd killed today had all been killed to directly protect the Tenth.

He dug his menthol cigarettes out, hated the taste but somehow always kept a battered pack hidden somewhere beneath his usual stash of the cigarettes he liked. They only ever came out at times like this. Not like they calmed his hands that definitely weren't shaking after a kill. Not like he needed the disgusting taste on his tongue to override the taste of bile.

Everyone on their side was safe. A little worse for wear – Hayato was sporting a messy hole in his side himself, looked a lot worse than it was – but safe.

From his perch on the bottom of the stairs, Hayato glanced over the large meeting room that had become a battlefield that had spread out to several parts of the mansion. He'd been guilty of a bit of property damage, but he'd incapacitated several men _without_ killing them too, and there wasn't a soul in the building who thought he should have done any differently. He wasn't the only one responsible, though, of course everyone's fighting styles ended up being pretty destructive to their surroundings, he was just the only person who used the surroundings to his advantage.

From across the room he spotted Chrome sitting in one corner, nursing her injured leg but much more absorbed in something else that Gokudera couldn't quite see. A little leaning to the side confirmed it: Mukuro, totally unscathed. Had he even participated in the battle? Gokudera thought he remembered seeing him a few times, but even if he had, that was probably an illusion. There was no way anyone could have even stood on the sidelines of that fight without getting injured, even Hibari would have gotten a bit banged up if he'd been here. Mukuro was just watching. Fucking bastard.

Gokudera sucked at his menthol impatiently, waiting as usual for the effects of the battle to wear off. He didn't notice his hands had already gone steady.


End file.
